


Fancy

by the_deep_magic



Series: A Very Critical Role Kinktober 2020 [11]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Denial, Dirty Talk, Humor, Kinktober 2020, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Roommates, Stockings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-13
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:15:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26985769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_deep_magic/pseuds/the_deep_magic
Summary: Day Eleven: stockings“Molly,” Fjord mutters, scrubbing one hand across his eyes. He’s been unable to pull the other away from Molly’s leg. “What in hell are these?”“Ooh, you like ‘em, Fjord?” Molly drawls, lifting a sculpted leg and poking Fjord in the chest with his toe. “Stole ‘em from royalty! Least that’s what he said. Most ‘spensive thing I own.”
Relationships: Fjord/Mollymauk Tealeaf
Series: A Very Critical Role Kinktober 2020 [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950748
Comments: 12
Kudos: 134





	Fancy

**Author's Note:**

> Hee heeee, I had fun with this one!

Fjord’s new roommate is a hoot. Sure, he’s fresh out of the circus, and that surely explains some of it, but not nearly all. The elaborate ritual with the swords, for one thing. Not that Fjord’s an expert on either swords or prayers, but it doesn’t bear similarities to anything he’s ever heard of. Then there’s the card reading, which is as big a crock of bullshit as Fjord’s ever seen. He’s a little worried at how wide-eyed Jester gets over it.

Still, the tiefling’s good with a sword, not to mention amusing as hell. And if Fjord happens to notice he’s easy on the eyes and none too shy about his body, that’s nobody’s business but Fjord’s.

Molly could stand to be a little neater, though. Maybe it’s all that time at sea, in shared quarters with approximately three personal possessions to his name, but Fjord can’t help but think that a somewhat-tidy living space is a calming thing to retire to at the end of a long day. Meanwhile, Molly thinks that every horizontal surface – and most vertical ones – is begging to be covered with whatever he has at hand.

Perhaps more concerning is Molly’s need for attention, which doesn’t seem to end even once they’re in their room. Right now, for instance, all Fjord wants to do is crawl under the covers and collapse, but Molly’s sprawled across Fjord’s bed – Molly’s own, of course, being covered with clothes and weapons and whatever odds and ends were in the bottom of his pack – groaning Fjord’s name. And not in the fun way, either.

“Fjooooooooord,” Molly whines. “’m too drunk for shoes.”

Fjord sighs. “Your shoes are just fine, Molly. They’re right where you left ‘em – on your feet.”

“Yes! No, I know,” Molly says, rolling over on his back. “Need them off. Too drunk. For off.”

“Are you tryin’ to say you’re too drunk to get your boots off?”

“Yes!” Molly cries happily. And hiccups.

Fjord looks down at Molly’s ridiculous thigh-high boots. Honestly, he’s not sure how Molly gets them on or off even when he’s sober – somehow, Fjord’s never been there for either process. He’s sort of been assuming that Molly just sleeps in them. “I guess I can try, but I’m not even sure how to start.”

Molly’s legs flop open on the bed. Perfect. “Ties,” he says, gesturing toward his crotch.

There are indeed fine laces on the leather on the insides of Molly’s thighs, so Fjord sighs and gets to work. Fortunately, they aren’t knotted too tightly, or Fjord would have simply shoveled Molly off his bed and onto the colorful nest on the other bed and left him to sleep in the damn boots. But once the ties are loosened, it looks like the rest of the boot from the knee down just has to be tugged straight off. Fjord resigns himself to a tug-of-war with Molly’s lower body – but to his surprise, they slide off rather easily. After he tosses the boots to the side and goes to heave Molly up, he sees why.

The stockings are made of a silky mesh so fine that Fjord can barely see the individual strands, though they glisten softly in the lantern light of the room. He’s touching them before he knows what his hands are doing, and they’re even softer than they look. After several trips to the bathhouse, Fjord knows by now that Molly hasn’t got any body hair, so the stockings shape perfectly to the skin of his legs and combine into a warm, inhumanly smooth fabric. They ascend up Molly’s legs to mid-thigh, where they must end right before the edge of his boots. There’s a lacy band at the top, but otherwise there’s nothing to hold them up but the tension of the material. And while Molly’s boots, and most of his clothes, are well-worn, these stockings look brand new.

“Molly,” Fjord mutters, scrubbing one hand across his eyes. He’s been unable to pull the other away from Molly’s leg. “What in hell are these?”

“Ooh, you like ‘em, Fjord?” Molly drawls, lifting a sculpted leg and poking Fjord in the chest with his toe. “Stole ‘em from royalty! Least that’s what he _said_. Most ‘spensive thing I own.”

“I’d believe it.”

“Enchanted to stay up,” Molly croons, waggling his eyebrows and his toes. “And not smell like feet.”

“That’s… good, I guess,” Fjord says, gnawing at his bottom lip. One of his tusks is starting to make itself known again. He should probably file them soon.

“Wanna peel ‘em off me, orc man?”

“Nope,” Fjord says quickly, taking Molly’s leg by the ankle and lowering it back to the bed. “Nope, gonna leave that to you. Bound to be more comfortable to sleep in than those boots, leastaways.”

“Awww, you’re no fun.”

“I’m plenty fun,” Fjord sighs, bending over to get an arm around Molly’s back. “When it’s not the middle of the night.” If he can just get the tiefling to his feet, he can probably push him over and make him land on his own bed without Fjord actually having to pick him up.

But after Fjord hefts him to his feet, Molly surprises him by taking two shuffling steps toward the other bed… before falling face first onto his crumpled robe. Well, at least he missed the swords at the foot of the bed.

Fjord shoves Molly until his center of gravity is far enough over the bed to get his legs up there, too. Which just so happens to give Fjord another good feel of those stockings, smooth as water under his fingers.

As tired as Fjord is, he has to wait until he can will his erection away before he’s able to fall asleep.

&&&

The next morning, Molly’s actually in his bed, having apparently shoved all his belongings onto the floor at some point during the night. The stockings are nowhere in sight, not that Fjord looks.

When Molly joins the rest of the group downstairs for breakfast, Fjord can’t help but notice that Molly’s wearing a different, shorter, and infinitely more practical pair of boots. Well, they’re planning on trekking around in a swamp today, so that makes sense. The tall ones have to be a bitch to clean.

Does Molly wear the stockings even if he’s not wearing the thigh-high boots?

Fjord absolutely, positively doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care all day.

He doesn’t care when they set off for the swamp, nor when they’re slogging through ankle-deep muck.

He doesn’t care as he’s batting the bugs away, then fighting off some kind of humanoid lizards with poison fangs.

He doesn’t care when they find the enchanted copper kettle they’re looking for, nor when they take it back to the sorcerer who paid them to retrieve it.

He doesn’t care when the sorcerer turns on them and tries to morph Jester into a potted plant.

He doesn’t care when they tie up the sorcerer, take all the gold he has on hand, and crawl back to the inn, exhausted but happy for the coin.

He doesn’t care after he finishes his obligatory triumphant drink, then retires early while most of the rest of them keep drinking.

By the time he’s back up in their room, he’s willing to admit that he maybe cares a little bit. He definitely stopped caring for a little while when the sorcerer got nasty, but he’s sort of back to caring now. A little bit.

And Molly’s things are everywhere – it’s not like Fjord has to rifle through a locked box or even an open knapsack. And Molly probably still has them on, anyway. They’re clearly valuable, not something you’d just leave lying around, draped right across your bed where anyone could walk in the room and—

They’re in Fjord’s hands before he can finish the thought.

How much is magic and how much is just expensive fabric, Fjord couldn’t possibly say, but they’re so _soft_. He hasn’t had much opportunity in his life to handle velvet, but he’s certain if he had some now, it would feel like burlap in comparison. He doesn’t even fight the compulsion to rub the luxurious material over his cheek, and he’s happy to confirm Molly’s assertion that they do not, in fact, smell like feet. They don’t have an odor at all.

Perhaps it’s just that Fjord is rarely around delicate, expensive things. Orphanages and sailing vessels don’t have much use for such items, nor could Fjord ever pay for much finery even if he’d wanted to. That must be it. Though it’s not a very good explanation for why his cock is once again swelling against the seam of his trousers.

Maybe that’s part of the enchantment. Sure, it must be. Not that Molly needs it – Fjord’s perfectly capable of lusting over the tiefling when he’s bare-ass naked, even if he won’t admit it – but still, these are just the sort of things Molly would want to hang onto. If anyone would be likely to wear magical fuck-me stockings – with a seam up the back, fucking hell – it would be Mollymauk Tealeaf.

Fuck, the throbbing in Fjord’s trousers is getting very annoying. If he could just—ah, yes, undoing the laces helps tremendously, letting his poor, trapped cock breathe. _That’s so much better_ , Fjord thinks as the satiny fabric slithers through his fingers. So much better, and yet, not quite enough. He just needs a little something to take the edge off, and what better to embrace his aching hard-on but—

No sooner has the idea sprung into Fjord’s head than he drops the stockings. For fuck’s sake, he was about to jerk off into _his roommate’s socks_. His stupid, hot roommate’s stupid, fancy thigh-high stockings. That’s insane. He barely knows Molly. And even if he did, that would in no way justify masturbating with the man’s clothing.

But.

Aren’t they charmed to stay clean? There’s no way they would stay looking this nice otherwise. And it’s _Molly_. He can’t just toss his magically seductive stockings anywhere and not expect someone to fall prey to their charms.

And so what? He’s never gonna find out anyway.

Fjord’s got one wrapped around the palm of each hand before he’s even made the decision.

The material doesn’t feel as good as he thought around his cock – somehow, it’s _better_. Warmed by his hands, it feels nearly like liquid. Not quite like the tight, clutching hole of a real-life partner, but if Fjord were drunk, he imagines he might not know the difference.

He’s surprised to feel his balls start to tighten so soon, and he pulls away. He hadn’t known he was that worked up, and he wants to draw it out at least a little bit. Molly will probably be downstairs drinking and trolling Beau for _hours_ – Fjord can treat himself to a good, slow wank and be cleaned off and asleep well before Molly stumbles upstairs.

Fjord has a good laugh at himself, realizing he’s still kneeling on Molly’s bed where he found the stockings. He should at least make it to his own bed first. Catching his breath, he stands up, one hand at his belt to keep his trousers from falling around his ankles while he gets comfortable on his own bed.

He’s still chuckling a little when he sees Molly perched on the edge of his bed, grinning widely. “Don’t let me stop you, darling. Looked like it was just getting good.”

The fact that Fjord does not simply sink through the floor and vanish is more evidence that this is a cold, cruel world with no use for him.

“Aren’t they marvelous?” Molly asks, utterly unruffled. “I wank with them at least once a week, though not since we’ve been traveling together.”

“Muh,” Fjord manages.

Molly pops up off the bed and gestures toward it. “Go on, get comfortable and finish up. I’m not going to blue-ball you. In fact, I’d love to watch. In _fact_ , if you want my help, I’d be more than happy to join in.”

Fjord swallows once. Twice. “Um. Are you. Are you… sure?”

“About all of the above, yes. I don’t know where your, uh, inclinations lie, but mine are all over the place, obviously. And those stockings were absolutely _made_ to be wrapped around your big, green cock.”

So lightheaded his vision is beginning to sparkle around the edges, Fjord nods and takes a seat on his bed. He swings his legs up on the bed mechanically, trying not to think too hard about any of it. Not _able_ to think too hard about it, really – his erection hasn’t softened one bit.

“Um,” Fjord says again. “I don’t know if I’m ready for you to… help. But you can watch? They’re—I mean, they’re your stockings.”

“Ohh, bless you,” Molly coos, hopping onto the foot of Fjord’s bed and folding his legs. “I do love to watch.”

Somehow that is unsurprising to Fjord.

He closes his eyes and wraps his hand, still swaddled in the fabric of the stocking, around himself. His abs immediately twitch at the feeling, and he gives himself a slow, tight stroke with a little twist at the head.

“Fuck, _yeah_ , just like that.”

Fjord opens his eyes to see Molly much closer now, nearly at Fjord’s feet where they rest flat on the bed.

“Sorry, uh, got a little excited,” Molly says with a shrug. “I can get a little… verbal when I’m excited.”

“S’okay,” Fjord hears himself say.

Molly nods greedily. “Go on, forget I’m here.”

But immediately after Fjord starts back up again, so does Molly. “ _Gods_ , that must feel good. Look at that big, thick dick. Lucky they’re thigh-highs, huh? More coverage.”

It is entirely too early in their friendship for this, Fjord thinks. Also, he whimpers a little, feeling precum bead at his tip.

“Ohh, do I have a good idea,” Molly groans, eyes rolling back in his head. “Been wanting to get that cock of yours in me forever. Why don’t you fuck me while I’m wearing those? Think about it, your cock buried deep in my ass while my legs wrap tight around your waist, that silky feeling all up and down your sides while you pound into me.”

Fjord moans, hips jumping off the bed to fuck into his fist. He has to shut his eyes against the shameless hunger on Molly’s face if he wants to last.

“Or,” Molly continues, voice rising with mischief. “Or maybe you’d prefer something else. Maybe I could ride you. Would you like that better? That way you could thrust up into me – yeah, just like you’re doing now – and I can feel that satiny slide of your thighs against my back, while _you’re_ wearing th—”

As he comes, Fjord shouts loud enough to drown Molly out completely. His hips snap up into the circle of his fist, and he wouldn’t be surprised if he shoots hard enough to hit the ceiling above him. The stockings seem to tighten around him, their snug, satiny caress dragging a few more spasms out of him, though it might just be his own hands convulsing. He falls back to the bed, gasping, and throwing his arm over his face so he doesn’t have to look Molly in the eyes.

After a long moment of nothing but his own breathing, Fjord hears, “Damn. If I’d known you were wound that tight, I’d have come on to you sooner.”

Fjord just groans in response, facing the music and sitting up to look at Molly, who looks like the cat who got the proverbial canary. Then he looks at his own hands, where the stockings are now, predictably, dripping with his cum. “Uh,” says Fjord.

“Oh, just toss them in the corner, love,” Molly says with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ll wipe them off later.”

“No, uh, I should do that,” Fjord says weakly, though he does toss the stockings away before tucking himself back in his pants. “What are you doing leaving enchanted seductive stockings lying around anyway? What if Jester had walked in here? Or Beau?”

Molly shrugs. “I mean, they’re free to play with them if they want, though I don’t know if I’d want Beau to have the satisfaction.”

With a bitter laugh, Fjord says, “Well, if she gets near them, it’s not like you can stop her.”

Molly pauses, frowning. “What do you mean?”

“Those fancy-ass stockings,” Fjord says with more exasperation than he probably should feel, given the circumstances. “They’re _magical_. They obviously still work when no one’s wearin’ them, but what if Beau gets a look at your feet while you’re in ‘em? That’ll get awkward pretty damn fast.”

Molly blinks incredulously. “Fjord,” he says slowly, patting Fjord’s foot. “The magic keeps them from falling down and keeps them clean. I can promise you it doesn’t make you want to rub them – or _me_ – on your dick.”

Fjord’s inner monologue screams and flings itself off a cliff.

“Oh,” he says. “Huh.”


End file.
